The Milestone Protocol by Ernest Dempsey (reading in the dark txt) 📗

his mind. His heart raced faster than the buildings flying by outside the window as his driver sped down the avenue toward their destination—a safe house apartment Svoboda kept in the city.

He chewed his fingers as he watched the buildings zoom by, places at which he’d eaten, drunk, cavorted for years without regard. Now, these ordinary façades brought back memories he wished he could taste one more time. Soon, he knew, these streets would be filled with death, rage, and destruction, leaving only shells of their current state.

The driver slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The tires scraped to a stop on the wet pavement, jolting Svoboda forward until the seatbelt halted his momentum. He grunted at the sudden pressure across his lap and chest, but he didn’t complain. Under normal circumstances, on an ordinary day, he would have lashed the driver with a chastising barrage of curses. But today was no ordinary day.

“Wait here, Augustus,” Svoboda ordered. He stepped out of the Rolls Royce’s opulent interior and slammed the door shut with the same lack of care he would have shown a beaten up thirty-year-old Ford.

Raindrops splattered on the wet street around him. The pattering sound against the shell of his car did nothing to distract him. Neither did the spitting precipitation against his skin. His thick black hair was already slicked to one side, so the rain would not affect it. Not that he cared. At that moment, appearance was the last thing on Svoboda’s mind.

He glanced up and down the mostly empty street. A few cars parked along the sidewalk in both directions, a couple in their mid-twenties walking hand in hand immune to the weather, and a man leaning up against the corner of a bar a block away were the only signs of life at this hour.

Svoboda checked his watch for the hundredth time since leaving his palatial mansion on the other side of town.

Several blocks away, the spires of the world famous Tyn Cathedral—also known as The Church of Our Lady before Tyn—towered over the homes, shops, bars, and cafés that stretched along the streets.

Satisfied no one recognized him, Svoboda scurried around the front of the car, his last step splashing in a deep puddle with the last step before he leaped onto the sidewalk. The murky water probably ruined his light brown leather shoes, but that was a concern for another time. He was one of the wealthiest men in Europe, he could always buy another pair of shoes, though these were exceedingly rare. The cobbler only made one pair like these a year, and when he did, the village rang church bells at the completion of each project.

Valentin Svoboda didn’t care much for such sentiments, but he liked to have the rarest of the rare, the most expensive, the most opulent. That said, he kept this low-key apartment near a touristy district of the city to keep a low profile for one of his most prized possessions.

He stopped short of the red door and glanced around one more time. The man leaning against the wall down the street flicked his fingers and a cigarette lighter flamed to life. He touched the yellow-orange tongue to the cigarette, then the flame went out, leaving nothing but a bright orange dot where the tip burned. The man took a long drag, then blew out a plume of smoke, turning his head the other direction.

Svoboda took a deep breath and straightened his untucked, white button-up shirt. The bottom of the garment hung over his potbelly, making his belt invisible to his eyes.

He pressed the call button next to the door and waited for several seconds after the buzzer sounded. When there was no answer, he pushed the button again. The annoying raindrops continued to splatter on and around him. Their inconsistency almost annoyed him more than the irritation of getting wet.

A light switched on inside the apartment. Slight movement followed in the form of a dim silhouette. Then he heard the footsteps draw close to the door. In the momentary pause, he sensed her looking through the peephole before the two locks clicked and the latch turned. The door cracked open and the woman inside peeked out.

“Valentin?” Her voice expressed confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought you were with your wife tonight?”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead pushing the door open so he could step inside. Once through, he immediately shut and locked it.

Svoboda’s mistress stared at him with foggy blue eyes. Her tangled blonde hair told that she’d been in bed, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed that she’d been asleep.

“What’s going on?” she asked, concern mounting in her tone. “You look worried.”

Svoboda didn’t answer right away. He scanned the room, like a jealous lover searching for the guilty party hiding under the bed or in the closet.

“Is anyone else here?” Svoboda asked. The intensity of his question stabbed her, and her confusion deepened.

“What? No. Of course not. You’re the only one, baby.” She slid closer to him, reaching out her hand to touch his shoulder, as if that simple act would reassure him.

He withdrew, twisting his shoulders from her fingertip.

“Not right now, Hana. You need to get out of here.”

Her smooth, tanned forehead wrinkled. “What are you talking about? It’s two in the morning.” She tried to draw near him again, a seductive look in her eyes.

He put up his hands and grabbed her by the waist, stopping her inches from him. “You don’t understand, and I can’t tell you everything. Something bad is about to happen. I can’t stop it. No one can.”

“Valentin, calm down. This is me you’re talking to. What’s going on? What do you mean, something bad is about to happen? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Valentin Svoboda was the founder of Penetech, one of the most powerful computer supply companies in the world. Penetech was worth billions and constantly faced scrutiny from the public regarding various manufacturing practices. But he’d never come under fire